he could check the evidence of her grief better than that of her joy.

He saw me, too, as I came forward out of the shadow. "Is that you,
Frank?" he said, faintly. "How very good of you to come." We would not
let him speak any more.

On the third day after the change for the better, I was alone with the
invalid. He turned to me suddenly, and spoke in a low voice, but so
steady that it surprised me. "Frank, what have you heard of Constance?"

Had I been arming myself to meet that question--disciplining my voice
and countenance for days, only to fail so miserably at last? I felt
unspeakably angry and self-reproachful when I saw that my face had told
him all.

"When did she die?" He went on in the same measured tone, without taking
his eyes off me. I think he had nerved himself just enough for the
effort, and was afraid of breaking down if he paused.

I could speak now, and told him. I was going on to tell him, too, how
calmly and happily her life had ended (her aunt had written all this to
Lady Catharine), when Guy stopped me--not coldly, but with a hopeless
sadness in his accent very painful to hear. "Thank you; it is meant
kindly, but I would rather not speak of this, even to you--at least for
some time."

His self-command carried him through bravely, but it only just lasted
out. Then he turned his head aside and threw his arm across it. As I
drew back to the window, I saw the quivering of the long, emaciated
fingers that veiled his face. I did not look again till Guy's voice
called to me, quite composedly, for I did not dare to pry into or meddle
with the secrets of the strong heart that knew its own bitterness so
well.

I told Lady Catharine what had passed. She was very much relieved to
hear that it was all over. She never opened her lips on the subject to
her son; indeed, though those two understood each other thoroughly,
there were wonderfully few confidences between them.

Guy's convalescence was slow--far slower than we had hoped for. It
seemed as if some spring was broken in his being not easily to be
replaced. He was moody and listless always, speaking very seldom; but
his words and manner, when he did talk, were gentler and more kindly
than I ever remembered them.

One of his first visitors was Colonel Mohun. He had been incessant in
his inquiries, and had offered to share our watching, but Lady Catharine
would not hear of it. She had a sort of dread at the idea of that grim
face lowering over the s